A Single Man
by Flywoman Returns
Summary: Eight months after his partner's death, House has resolved that today will be different. AU in which Wilson and House were a closeted couple all along. Not a crossover with "A Single Man," more like a hybrid.
1. Chapter 1

WARNINGS: Character death. House/Wilson slash, House/Cuddy and House/OMC flirtation. Spoilers through S3 and for 5X4, "Birthmarks."

DISCLAIMER: Seriously not mine. David Shore and colleagues created the characters on House M.D., and Tom Ford and David Scearce wrote the screenplay for _A Single Man_, based on the novel by Christopher Isherwood.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: It really wasn't my intention to write another deathfic after the monster that was "Three Months," but I was struck by so many parallels when I watched "A Single Man" that I felt compelled to attempt this experiment. I'd love to hear your thoughts on whether or not it worked, even if you haven't seen the film.

**

* * *

Chapter 1**

_I am walking towards the site of the accident, dressed in a dark suit, deliberately placing one foot before the other. He lies spread-eagled in the snow, drying blood caked along his cheekbone and forehead. His glassy eyes stare up unseeing at the brilliant winter sky. I stretch out my length beside him, propping my head up on one hand, then lean in and press my warm lips gently to his, stiff and bloody and blue._

I start awake, lying on my side of the bed, naked and alone. The alarm clock beeps a shrill clarion call to action. My thigh throbs in time beneath the twisted sheets, which are sodden with my sweat. For the past eight months, waking up has actually hurt, and not just because of my old injury. When I touch my fingers to my stinging lip, they come away bloody. The cold realization that I am still here slowly sets in.

I was never terribly fond of waking up. I was never one to jump out of bed and greet the day with a smile like Wilson was. I used to want to punch him sometimes in the morning, he was so happy. I used to tell him that only idiots would greet the day with a smile, that only idiots could possibly escape the simple truth: That _now _isn't simply _now_; it's a cold reminder. One day later than yesterday. One year later than last year. And that – sooner or later – _it will come_. He used to laugh at me and then give me a kiss on the cheek.

I steel myself, plant my feet on the floor, and limp into the bathroom. I piss, shave, chase a couple of Vicodin with a glass of water. Wilson would snicker if he could see the care with which I run the razor over my skin. He told me once that I looked good unshaven, and whether he was lying or not, I took him at his word. Now that he's gone, I feel compelled to scrape my jaw and cheeks raw, resulting in a smooth mask that I barely recognize, one whose revealed wrinkles cause me to look older and sadder, if not wiser.

These days, it takes time in the morning for me to become Greg House. I brush my hair, iron my shirt, wrestle with a tie, and even shine my sneakers – all the little steps in a daily ritual that serves to delay the inevitable moment when I must leave our – my – apartment and play my appointed part.

Looking in the mirror, staring back at me isn't so much a face as the expression of a predicament. I hiss at my reflection, _"Just get through the goddamn day."_ A bit melodramatic, I guess. But then again, my heart has been broken. I feel as though I'm sinking. Drowning. I can't breathe.

When I emerge into the living room at last, Wilson is teasing Hector, holding a treat just out of reach so that the little dog circles, tottering, on his hind legs. He smiles conspiratorily at me over Hector's head, then vanishes. I close my eyes and lean against the wall for a moment, caught in the grip of an all-too-familiar spasm. _Wilson is dead._ My thigh twinges despite the Vicodin, and there is a stiffness in my arm, a tightness in my chest.

In the kitchen, I regard the refrigerator, nearly bare. With Wilson gone, my bachelor's diet has degenerated to stale bread, cold cuts, and peanut butter. And today there is no bread. I finally find it in the freezer, stone cold and nearly as hard. I bang it on the edge of the counter in frustration, but it just bounces off instead of shattering. I can't get no satisfaction.

_

* * *

Beside the desk in my new office at Princeton Plainsboro, my name and that of my very own department freshly stenciled on the door. "Aren't you going to say something?"_

"_Are you kidding? It's spectacular." Wilson leans in, eyes alight with mischief, backing me against the single solid wall._

"_What are you doing? Stop it." I retreat as far as I can, the firmness of concrete behind my head, and gesture towards the door and the single fragile, transparent sheet that separates us from the adjoining conference room. "I don't think I'm quite ready for life in a glass house."_

"_Blinds, old man," he murmurs, warm breath brushing against my lips. "You're the one who's always saying that we're invisible."_

"_That's not exactly what I meant," I object, just before he stops my mouth with a kiss._

* * *

My cell phone rings, disrupting my reverie. I try to ignore it. For the first time in my life, I can't see my future. Every day goes by in a haze. But today, I have decided, will be different. Then the sound triggers another flood of memory that threatens to wash me away.

_

* * *

Sitting on the couch in our apartment with the _Lancet_, I pick up the phone. "Finally," I grouse. "You know it's been snowing all day. And I've been trapped in this place waiting for you to call."_

"_I'm sorry," a vaguely familiar voice says, "I must have the wrong number. I was calling for Dr. Gregory House."_

_Smelling a telemarketer, I almost hang up, but something in the man's tone or timbre stops me. "Oh. Yes, you've got him. Who is this?"_

"_This is Harold Wilson, I'm Jimmy's brother."_

"_Oh, of course." I can place him now. We'd met once, years ago, when he was in town for a visit after Wilson's second divorce. _

"_I'm afraid I'm calling with some bad news."_

"_Oh?" My heart clenches like a fist, already fearing the worst._

"_There has been a car accident."_

"_Accident?" I repeat idiotically._

"_There's been a lot of snow here lately, and the roads have been icy. On his way to town, Jimmy lost control of his car." I pull off my reading glasses, my hand shaking. "It was instantaneous, apparently."_

"_Oh."_

"_It happened late yesterday, but our parents didn't want to call you."_

"_I see." Wilson's mother had never approved of me, and the feeling was mutual._

"_In fact, they don't know that I'm calling you now. But I thought that you should know."_

_It takes me a moment to marshal breath enough for words. "Thank you."_

"_I know this must be quite a shock. It was for all of us."_

"_Yeah," I say. My lips feel numb, and my much-vaunted brain has turned to mush. "Will there be a service?"_

"_The day after tomorrow."_

"_Well, I suppose I should get off the phone and book a flight…"_

"_The service is just for family." There is honest regret in his voice._

"_For family, for…" I close my eyes. "It's Julie, isn't it?"_

"_One of his ex-wives didn't think that it would be appropriate," Harold confirms, deliberately vague. _One of his ex-wives. Just for family._ He probably doesn't understand how hurtful these words are to the man on the other end of the line, the man who has watched the parade of women march through Wilson's life over the years while he stood on the sidelines. Or maybe he does. I don't know which would be worse._

"_Well, thanks for calling," I say, because it's all that I can manage without ripping into an innocent bystander, or worse, humiliating myself with a near-stranger. I fumble to hang up with clumsy fingers and sit there for a minute, stunned. I can barely feel the tears that begin to trickle down my face._

_I find myself pulling up at the curb of Cuddy's house on my bike with no recollection of how I navigated the slick streets. I pound on the door desperately with the handle of my cane, and she opens it, her expression resigned at first, then expanding in astonishment and compassion. "I didn't know where else to go," I confess, and she cradles me in her arms, her generous breasts pressing against me underneath her nightgown. She strokes my hair as I pour out my story on her shoulder._

* * *

The phone is still ringing. I grab this week's issue of the _NEJM_ and take it with me to the john, letting the caller go to voicemail. Nothing much happens for a long time except that I become better informed about the improved quality of life and longer survival seen in patients with metastatic lung cancer who receive early palliative care. Then the ringing begins again. Exasperated, I limp into the living room, my pants still down around my ankles, and pick up. "Hello, Cuddy."

"How did you know it was me?"

"Cuddy, _nobody_ else calls me before ten in the morning."

"Well, maybe nobody else expects you to get your sorry ass into the clinic before class."

"I couldn't come in today. I have a headache."

"With that much Vicodin coursing through your veins, you can feel a headache?"

A diversion is clearly in order. "I was going to call you, actually. Is it too late to change my mind about tonight?"

She perks up immediately. "No, of course not. I haven't seen you all week." I wonder whether she's so anxious to see me out of sexual frustration or concern for my well-being. Just like with Wilson, it's probably a little of both.

"I know, I'm sorry. I have to run now, I'm late for work." I can almost hear her eyes roll on the other end of the line. "I'll come by later."

"All right, I'll see you then."

"Bye, Cuddy."

"Bye, old man."

I give up on this morning's BM and pull my pants back up. The _NEJM_ goes into my backpack, along with the handgun I retrieve from my locked desk drawer. I hold the revolver in my hands for a moment first, reassured by its weight and solidity. And I check to make sure that all cylinders are empty, just like my father taught me.

* * *

Lady has arrived by the time I emerge into the kitchen. "Good morning, Meester Greg," she greets me, then peers at my face with a slight frown. "Sir? You don't look so good today."

"Good morning. No, I didn't sleep very well." I pause. "You forgot to take the bread out of the freezer."

"It stays fresh that way."

"It was a little _too_ fresh this morning," I retort, "not unlike yourself." She frowns again, not parsing. I decide to move on. "There are some papers laid out on my desk which need to stay there, so please don't move them. And… I'm afraid that the sheets need changing again."

She only smiles; this woman has the patience of a saint. "It's okay, sir."

"Lady-"

"Sir?"

"Thank you." I bend down to peck her farewell on the cheek. "You're wonderful." She stares after me as I turn towards the front door, the word _loco_ hovering unspoken in the air between us.

* * *

Now that I have made my decision, all of my senses seem ironically to have come alive. My perceptions even appear to arrive before the sources of the impressions. On my ride to work, the scenery seems to float by, so slowly that it throws my reflexes off as I brake and turn. The air flows thick as molasses, filtering the sunlight.

I pull into my handicapped spot. It takes me a long time to get out of the car. The reflection of a broken but determined man stares back at me from the rear view mirror. Finally I push myself against the weight of all that air and lever myself to my feet.

* * *

I've caught them between classes, a flood of budding humanitarians surging from one building to the next, pagers in hand, textbooks tucked under their arms. I walk against the herd like Moses parting the Red Sea, turning the heads of students of both sexes. It's a small place; they all know the story, and watch me pass with horrified fascination, or pity, or polite skepticism in their smiles. A few of them watch with something else, an expression that I used to catch on Cameron's face when confronted with terminal cases. I have never experienced that kind of attraction myself, but she devoured the damaged with her eyes, and as for Wilson- well, Wilson had _eaten_ neediness. Lucky for me.

One especially beautiful boy with straight hair like ripe wheat recognizes me from my class and waves in welcome. I raise a hand half-heartedly to return his salute. The blonde girl beside him blows smoke rings, insolent and bored.

* * *

The nurse at the front desk catches me on my way to my office. "Doctor House? There was a student here this morning asking for your address."

I do some rapid calculations. "Address? Did you give it to him?"

She doesn't ask how I knew it was a he, just stammers, "Yes sir? I did? I hope that's okay," she adds hurriedly, no doubt all too aware of the uncertainty of my temper. "I realize I probably shouldn't have, but… he was _very_ nice, and before I knew it, he…"

I have never noticed her eyes before, how unusual and varied their shades of vivid blues and greens. Her straightened hair is a glossy sheet of beaten gold. "Your hair looks great like that, it really suits you," I say. She colors, completely disconcerted, squinting as if trying to discern a novel angle of attack. "You always look so beautiful, really fresh, and you have such a lovely smile." I'm close enough to inhale her delicate scent. "Arpége?"

"Sir?" she says with a nervous laugh. This is the kind of behavior that women expected from Wilson, never from me.

"Really beautiful," I reassure her, and proceed past her to the elevator, leaving her witless in my wake.

* * *

I get my coffee in the Oncology lounge these days. No one would dare be insensitive enough to object. John Reuter, the unrepentant ass-kisser that Cuddy's kept on my tail since abandoning her campaign to get me on antidepressants, sidles up to me as I pour myself a cup. "Good morning, Greg."

"Good morning, _John_."

"You look awful, what have you been doing?"

I can't shake him; he follows me back to my office, looking as if he might grope for my pulse or impale me with a thermometer at any second. To distract him, I start complaining about the quality of med students these days, a familiar refrain. "Seriously, all they want is to pass the boards, do their residencies in Derm, and sit on the beach for the rest of their lives when they're not popping the pimples of rich brats from the Jersey suburbs. Half the time in class, I find them staring at me with a kind of bovine stupidity as if I were lecturing in a foreign language. Remind me again why we shouldn't all just be annihilated?"

I don't listen to his response; my mind is already elsewhere. When I look up again a few minutes later, he's gone. I sit at my desk watching the numbers count down on my computer screen until it's time for class.


	2. Chapter 2

I had never expected to find myself in front of a classroom again, but after the accident, something had happened. Maybe it was knowing that all of my skills couldn't have made a damned bit of difference when an icy road caused Wilson's car to wrap itself around a tree. Maybe it was my sudden failure to _notice_ things the way I used to, the foggy feeling of having all of my senses swathed in cotton. In any case, I found myself suffering from a bad case of the yips, maybe not terminal, but certainly severe.

Cuddy had taken pity on me; she dispersed my team, reassigned our room, and deployed me to replace old Doctor Riley in Diagnostics 101. And then, since the spring semester had gone surprisingly well, she'd assigned me another class for the fall. "Medical Ethics?" I'd repeated incredulously. "Well, all those studies show that we learn best by teaching," she'd smirked.

Now I perch on the edge of the chair, resting my forehead on the handle of my cane. The clatter stills; the murmur dies down. I raise my head, staring silently out at the sea of faces, some sleepy, others sullen, and sigh.

"_After many a summer dies the swan_," I sing out suddenly. This is an experiment, one of many that I've felt free to try since I don't give a flying fuck what my evals look like from this course. I fix each of several students in turn with a gimlet eye. "How does Huxley's novel relate to the ethical problem that I posed the other day?"

The students shift in their seats. One, a particularly unimaginative blockhead in the third row, raises a hammy hand. "Yes, Mr. Murphy?"

"It doesn't. It's about this rich guy who's afraid that he's too old for this girl…" His asinine voice drones on, fades out.

I'm startled awake by impudent peals of laughter and jerk my head up. I pause, looking around for my next eager victim, and point. "Russ." The next moron launches his mouth. Although I've been calling on each student by name, they are almost certainly not the right ones. There are some snickers behind hands, but no one bothers to correct me.

As my gaze drifts over the seats, I see that the same boy who waved at me earlier is sitting in the front row next to the blasé blonde. His eyes are fixed on me, his beauty so bright that it is almost painful.

And he's not the only one, not even the only male. In these latter days of gay pride, they are all too often appallingly overt, their flamboyance almost an assault. Despite the physical perfection of youth, I find most of them desperately dull. After all, it was never his knowledge of show tunes and French pants that attracted me to Wilson. It was his warmth, his wit, and above all, his intellect, as keenly revealing as a stainless steel scalpel.

Russ, or whoever, has finished. A tall student in spectacles raises his hand. "Doctor House, Mr. Propter says that personalities are illusory figments of a self-will disastrously blind to the reality of a more-than-personal consciousness. Does this mean that Huxley believes that we are doomed to harm if we act on behalf of individual, selfish interests when we serve our patients?"

This one, at least, is thinking, even if he is totally wrong. Normally I would tear him down, or drown him out. But today is different. Today I have resolved. And so. "No, Mr. Parrish. Quite the contrary. Huxley uses Dr. Obispo to illustrate the idea that individuals should never be sacrificed on the altar of science, for the greater good. We serve only individuals. We act as advocates for our patients, one by one. And we should never fear to do so."

The students are all staring at me now, astonished. I warm to my subject, stand, start to pace, hardly noticing the ache in my thigh. "Let's put Mr. Huxley aside for the moment and talk about fear. Fear, after all, is our real enemy. Above all else, the fear of being wrong is professional suicide for a doctor. You have to assess your evidence, make a diagnosis, and proceed in the belief that you are correct, at least until new data proves you wrong. Do nothing, and the patient dies." _Hypocrite_, my conscience whispers, but I ramble, on a roll, until the bell for change of classes sounds, recalling me to myself, this place, this time.

No one moves; for the first time this semester, they appear to be hanging on my every word. "But always remember," I conclude, "that your patients have other fears. The fear of growing old, of being alone. The fear that we're useless, and that no one cares what we have to say."

I pause, swallowing past a sudden lump in my throat. "Have a good weekend," I say, possibly for the first (and almost certainly for the last) time ever, and turn to the table where my backpack rests.

* * *

The kid from the front row catches up with me just outside the classroom. "Sir! May I talk to you for a minute?" He's always had a sweet, old-fashioned air about him, and right now he looks exceptionally lovely, flushed with excitement, bottomless blue eyes wide. He falls into step beside me as easily as if he's had years of practice. "Why don't you always talk to us like that?"

"I don't think it went over very well," I say drily.

"Fear of things gets to me all the time," he gushes, "but you can't talk about it with anyone, or you just feel like a fool."

I look sidelong at him. "You can't even talk about it with Lois?"

That's not actually her name, I'm almost sure of it, but he doesn't react, just answers the question with touching earnestness: "I don't think she's afraid of anything."

Fighting the temptation to smile, I say, "Everyone is afraid of something, Kenny."

He looks intently up at me from underneath those long lashes. "What are you afraid of, sir?"

Presumptuous pup. "Cars," I say lightly, instead of ripping him a new one.

"How can you live in Jersey and be afraid of cars?"

"Maybe you can't."

He doesn't seem to get this, but doggedly keeps pace beside me. "Sometimes my biggest fears can almost paralyze me. It's like I get really panic-stricken and feel like I might explode or something." He pauses. "May I ask you a personal question, sir?"

"If you like," I respond in the least encouraging tone I can muster.

"Do you ever get high?"

I stare at him, incredulous for more reasons than I can count, sift through a dozen possible responses in the time it takes to inhale, and go with, "How old do I look to you?"

"Well, have you ever taken drugs?"

"Of course, Kenny," I answer, trying to keep a straight face, and sorely tempted to pull out my pills and dry-swallow a couple just to drive the point home.

"Like what?"

Again, far too many candidates come to mind. "I don't feel I should be discussing this with you on campus, Mr. Potter."

He leans in confidingly. "It's the only way I get by sometimes. Have you ever tried oxycontin?"

"Not my drug of choice." This appears to require more explanation; against my better judgment, I tot the facts up succinctly. "It was a particularly shitty Christmas a few years ago. I took most of a week's prescription over the course of a day. My roommate found me lying in my own puke and walked out." I blink against a sudden blurring of my vision. "I was looking for an experience, not to ruin things with the one person who mattered."

He considers that, then forges ahead anyway. "Well, if you ever want to get high, sir, I usually have some dope…"

This time I do laugh in his face. "You really are crazy, aren't you?"

We stare at each other for a few long seconds before I break it off by turning and limping away. He hurries after me. "I'm sorry, sir, I guess you don't feel comfortable talking like this."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, _Lois" –_he's playing along with me, perhaps a ploy to get my guard down_-_ "thinks you're kind of cagey. Like this morning, when you were listening to all that crap that we were saying about Huxley."

"Well, not all of you. I didn't notice you opening your mouth once." The current proximity of the mouth in question, and the thoughts of what exactly it might do when open, are increasing my heart rate more than I want to admit to myself.

"I was watching you," he states frankly. "You let us ramble on and on, and then you straightened us out… you never really tell us everything you know about something."

"Well, maybe that's true. Up to a point. It's just that I can't really discuss these things completely openly at school. Somebody would misunderstand." I pause, disconcerted. Am I _flirting_ with him? Hinting that I want to ask him _out_, for Christ's sake? To cover my embarrassment, I add, "I tried that today. Didn't really work."

We've arrived at the campus bookstore. The kid leads the way to the electronics section, chooses a red pair of earbuds, and looks over at me. "What was it you wanted to get, sir?"

"Nothing. I was on my way to the Dean's office." Technically true, at least eventually.

"You mean you walked all the way down here just to talk to me?"

"Why not?"

"Well… I think you deserve something for that, sir." He gestures towards the rack. "Take your pick. It's on me."

I can't help smiling. "Thanks," I say, snapping up a yellow set.

"I thought you'd probably pick blue," Kenny muses.

I decide to rise to the bait. "Why blue?" I'm half-expecting to be disappointed by some kind of lame pick-up line about how it brings out my eyes.

"Isn't blue supposed to be spiritual?" he asks. Huh. He's surprised me. Maybe more than just a pretty face after all.

"What makes you think I'm spiritual?" He just looks at me, all innocence. I jerk my chin towards his own purchase. "And you. Red?"

"What does red stand for?"

"Oh, a lot of things. Rage… _lust_." I let my voice drop on the last word, just a little, and am perversely gratified when Kenny's pupils dilate.

"No kidding," he says, swallowing. "Well, sir, I guess I'll see you around."

* * *

Back in my office, I clean out my desk. Most things I leave; I won't need them where I'm going. I unearth a few confidential files from locked drawers and stuff them into my backpack, followed by my thinking ball, the fuzz worn thin from many years of abuse. My thigh was fairly quiet on the walk with Kenny but by now is killing me. I down three Vicodin in one gulp and wash them down with the last fingers of Maker's Mark from the bottle I keep stashed away. That gets me in the right frame of mind to call on Cuddy.

* * *

She's busy when I arrive, but sends her assistant out as soon as she sees me. "I was just leaving. I wanted to know if you needed anything for tonight."

Cuddy looks surprised, as well she might. "Oh, uh, thanks, you're sweet. But I think I'm all set." I wait for it. "Oh, maybe you could pick up some gin for me. Tanqueray. I love the color of the bottle."

"You love what's in it," I state the obvious. I know what she drinks and how much she drinks; they didn't call her "Partypants Lisa C." in college for nothing. "What time do you want me?"

I know the answer to that is "all the time," at least when she can't have me, but all she says is, "Seven would be great if that's okay with you?"

"Perfect. See you then."

* * *

It's 2:20 when I stand in the doorway of my office for the last time. They've left my name on the door, but "Department of Diagnostic Medicine" was removed right around the time that the last of my former fellows got placed in a new position. Without it, "Dr. Gregory House, M.D." looks rather lonely.

* * *

I get into the car. My heart is racing, and not just from my rapid walk with the heavy backpack slung over my shoulder. I am rearranging the contents, the gun in my hand, when a rap on the window startles me into dropping it. I glare up against the sun. It's Kenny. He waits politely while I roll down the window.

"_Yes_, Mr. Potter," I snarl.

"Are you going somewhere, sir?"

"That is usually why people get into their cars."

"No, I mean, are you going on vacation or something?"

"What?"

"Well, I saw you cleaning out your office."

I roll my eyes. "I have a stalker. How charming. What exactly is it that you want, Kenny?"

"It's Cody, actually. Uh, I was just hoping that maybe we could get together for a drink or something sometime."

There it is. He's asking me out. "And why is that?"

"I don't know, sir. Because I think you might like it, and… because you seem as though you could use a friend."

"Oh, really?"

This boy apparently forgot to stand in line when the sarcasm detectors were being handed out. "Yes, sir, you do."

I hesitate for just a moment. But I have an appointment to keep, and the last thing this babe in the woods needs is to get tangled up in my mess. "Well, you may be right. But it will have to be another time, I'm late." _Or soon will be._ "But thanks for the invitation. And for the talk, earlier. And… stay off the Oxy."

Kenny - _Cody_ - grins shyly and stands watching as I gun the engine and put the car into reverse.


	3. Chapter 3

A guard opens the door for me at Sun National Bank, his eyes flicking to my cane and then politely away again. The teller greets me by name. I think hers is Sharon, or maybe Sheila. She leads me back to the safe deposit boxes.

Once she's gone, I remove the documents one by one – titles and insurance policies, mostly – and stuff them into my backpack. A small ring box rattles in the bottom as I shift the papers. On impulse, I open it and slip the heavy gold band inside onto my finger.

The last item, hidden underneath everything else, is a Polaroid of Wilson. He's lying naked on a chaise lounge, smiling, squinting against the sun. I close my eyes.

_

* * *

The air is warm. I'm stretched out beside Wilson's pool, a damp towel pillowing my head. Wilson sprawls beside me, propped up on one elbow, drinking a beer. Julie is away for the weekend; things haven't been going well between them, and although Wilson won't admit it yet, I know that it's the beginning of the end, again. _

"_So, explain Cuddy to me," he smirks._

"_What do you wanna know?" I'm disarmed, half-dozing, between the drowsy sunlight and the six-pack of Coronas we've polished off between us._

"_I don't know. You seem very… intimate, I guess. Do you two have a thing?"_

"_I think you're mistaking wrath for romance."_

"_Nooo… hostility is _exactly_ how you exhibit romantic feelings. You're like an eight-year-old who pulls a pretty girl's pigtails on the playground and then runs away."_

"_And does that make you the pretty girl in this scenario? Get over yourself."_

_He just looks at me. "You haven't slept with her, have you?"_

"_Yeah," I say, surprising both of us._

_His grin widens. "And?"_

_I shrug. "Once, when we were younger. I wouldn't say that it meant _nothing_ to me, but it meant a lot more to Cuddy." I grab the beer dangling from his fingers and take a sip before handing it back. "It was a long time ago, in Michigan."_

_Wilson is quiet for a minute. Then: "Why are you with me?"_

_I tense, straining to sit up. "What the _hell?_"_

"_I'm serious." He leans back, draining the bottle. "You've been with women. Cuddy, Stacy…"_

"_You're a fine one to talk."_

"_I know," he says. "I've never been with another man, though." He looks at me sidelong, and doesn't have to say that this, in a way, is the closest to sexual fidelity that I can claim from him._

* * *

I open my eyes, back in the stale, air-conditioned air of the bank vault. It's suddenly hard to breathe. I slide the photo into my back pocket and notify the teller that my task is done.

Claiming my daily limit of cash at the ATM, I become aware that a little girl is staring at me from behind her mother's waist at the next station. Blonde pigtails, impossibly limpid blue eyes. "Why do you look so sad?" she lisps.

"Oh, aren't you adorable. I'm not sad, I'm complicated. Chicks dig that. One day you'll understand."

Mom gives me a suspicious look and hustles the little girl away.

* * *

I drop by the gun shop on my way home to pick up a box of bullets. The kid behind the counter comments on how old my piece is and tries to sell me on their two-for-one special. I keep my temper by thinking about how outraged Wilson would have been at being called my "little lady."

* * *

As I'm leaving the liquor store with the requested fifth of gin, my head is down, negotiating the threshold along with cane, burden and door. I collide with a young man, Southern European, probably Iberian, and the bottle shatters, spilling its contents across the pack of cigarettes that has fallen from his fingers. We nearly bump heads trying to retrieve our respective possessions, but it's too late. He's noticed my cane, and he apologizes with a distinctive accent that I immediately place in central Spain, most likely Madrid.

"No, it's my fault," I say gruffly. "I'll get you another pack."

When we re-emerge, he offers me a cigarette from his new supply. "No thanks," I say. Then his eyes catch hold of me: a warm, rich brown, below heavy eyebrows, so reminiscent of Wilson's that there's a sudden twinge in my chest. I swallow. "Actually, yes," I amend. "Why not. Thanks."

He's wearing a wifebeater and tight jeans that hug the hard curve of his ass. His face looms in front of me as he leans in with his lighter. He inhales, pauses. Smoke wafts sensually from between his full lips. I imitate him, and the first rush of nicotine sends me into a dizzying sugar high - the best thing about not being a habitual smoker.

"Carlos."

I blink, bewildered. "What did you say?"

"Carlos. You asked me my name. Are you okay?"

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, sorry." And then, because I'm feeling generous, and I'll never see him again, I add, "Tienes algo especial. Una cara increíble. Disfruta, es un regalo."

"Tu español es perfecto," he responds, also using the intimate tú form despite our recent acquaintance and the difference in our ages.

"Gracias. Debia usarlo más."

"Bueno. Nunca es tarde." Is it just my imagination, or does he mean more than he says? I don't want to take the chance. I drop the cigarette and stub it out with the tip of my cane, then press a $100 bill into his hand before turning and limping away.

Carlos follows me to my car. Before I catch on to what's happening, he's walked around to the passenger's side and is reaching for the door handle. "What are you doing?" I demand sharply.

He pauses, puzzled. "Aren't we going somewhere?"

I shake my head. "No. But thanks."

He follows my embarrassed gaze to the sky, where a glorious sunset is unfolding in swathes of scarlet and gold. "Sabes, es la contaminación que hace esos colores."

"I've never seen a sky like this before," I murmur.

He gives me a grave look. "A veces las cosas mas horrorosas tienen su propia encanto."

This sentiment is so closely aligned with my own thoughts that I decide to linger in his company just a little longer. "Could I have another cigarette?"

"Sure," he says, looking relieved.

We lean companionably against the rear of the car and smoke silently for a few seconds. Inevitably he asks, "Are you sure you don't wanna go for a drive?"

I smile sadly. "I'm sure."

"No one has ever picked me up and not wanted something," he says.

"I think _you_ picked _me_ up," I point out. After a pause, I add, as a sort of apology, "This is kind of a serious day for me."

"Come on," he says. "What could be so serious for a guy like you?" I'm a little disappointed, thinking that all he sees is the snazzy red sports car, the expensive sneakers, the iPod protruding from my pocket. Then I'm disappointed by my disappointment.

"Oh," I say lightly, "I'm… just trying to get over an old love, I guess."

He smiles, suddenly on surer footing. "Well, my mother used to say that lovers are like buses. You just have to wait a little while, and another one comes along."

The silence stretches meaningfully for a minute before I stub out my cigarette. "Gotta go."

"Soy buen tipo," he calls after me as I open the driver's door. "Pienso que lo que necesites es alguien que te quiere de verdad."

"Thanks," I say gruffly. "But I'm going away."

* * *

Back at home, standing in the dim corner of the living room. I pick up an LP, turning it over in my hands.

_Tito Beltran's "Nessun Dorma" swells, then fades. "It's your turn to change it," I say without looking up from my book._

"_Yeah, I'm not changing it, it's your turn," Wilson grunts from his side of the sofa. "Besides, you never like what I put on, anyway."_

"_That's only because if you had your way, we'd be listening to Liza Minnelli every night." Silence. "I'll give you $20 if you change it. I'm too old to get up."_

"_You're only old when it's convenient for you to be old," Wilson complains, but we both know that that was just shorthand for_ my leg hurts_, and that eventually he will indeed get up and change the record. "What are you reading, anyway?"_

_I hold up _The Metamorphosis_, and Wilson rolls his eyes. "Oh _god_, not that depressing crap again." He fails to follow this with his usual psychobabble about how much I must identify with Gregor Samsa, waking to find himself disfigured, the object of everyone's pity and incomprehension. This omission inspires gratitude and therefore irritation. _

"_And what highbrow work of fiction might _you_ be reading?"_

"_That smugness of yours really is an attractive quality." He's halfway through _Breakfast at Tiffany's_, yet one more indication for anyone who's looking that Wilson may not be the straightest cue stick on the rack._

_Hector emits a sudden snore, and Wilson looks fondly down at him. "Don't you envy the life he has?"_

"_Why, 'cause he can sniff anyone's ass he wants?"_

"_Ni-i-ice. No. Because he does what he wants. In fact, he's basically a very sophisticated parasite that's figured out how to get _us_ to do whatever he wants."_

_I look at him over the rims of my reading glasses. "Are you trying to tell me something?"_

_He just smirks at me. "Well," I say, "the dumbest creatures are always the happiest. Just look at your mother."_

"_House," he says more seriously, "wouldn't it be nice if we could just live in the moment like he does? For instance, what could be better than being tucked up here with you?" He gives me a rare, soft smile. "I mean, if I died right now, it'd be okay."_

_My skin prickles in a sudden flash of irrational panic. "Well, it wouldn't be okay with me," I say roughly. "So why don't you shut the fuck up and go change the record?"_

_We glare at each other for a minute, than relax into shared, slightly sheepish half-smiles. "Good answer," he says. _

_He goes back to his book, turns the page, then glances up again. "Oh, I was thinking of taking him up with me next week if that's okay with you. It's my mom, she loves him." And then, deadpan: "Probably in recognition of a similar mind."_

_Rewarded with a reluctant chuckle, Wilson gets up to change the record, motioning for me to stay put. "No, you stay there, old man," he teases, and then bends swiftly to kiss me on the forehead._


	4. Chapter 4

I lay out my least-worn suit with the sky blue shirt that Cuddy once told me almost made me look handsome. Next to the folded clothes I place my favorite pair of Nike Shox. One by one I arrange all of the relevant documents, my keys, on the desk, just so. Wilson would have been proud.

The loaded gun accompanies me to my freshly made-up bed. I lie down on my back and slide the cool muzzle into my mouth. I'd known since well before my ER rotation that temple shots are notoriously unreliable. I adjust the angle. The position is awkward, though; my arms are cramping up.

I pull myself up into a sitting position, a pillow behind my head, stretching my legs out in front of me, and massage my thigh for a moment. This doesn't feel right either.

It occurs to me that I've caused Lady more than enough grief lately and my mess will be more confined in the bathroom, so I limp in there, grasp the pipes to clamber into the shower, and brace myself against the back wall. But just as I'm about to pull the trigger, my bad leg slips, and I slide ignominiously onto my ass. I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry, and a small sound escapes me that could have been either.

One more idea presents itself; I haul an old sleeping bag out of the hall closet and unroll it onto my bed, then crawl inside and zip it up around myself. I wriggle to the bottom and pull my head inside; it's dark and dank and smells musty and faintly of campfire smoke. I squirm around, getting the gun back into position.

And then… my phone rings. _Christ._ It's got to be Cuddy. I struggle back out of the sleeping bag and lurch into the living room to answer it.

"No, I did not forget the gin. I'll see you in ten minutes." It's just as well; I'd completely forgotten to leave the envelope full of bills aside for Lady. I tuck it into the plastic wrapping of this morning's loaf of bread, which I place in the freezer.

* * *

Cuddy's house glows with gracious lighting. I ring the bell and contemplate a dusky, fragrant rose while I wait. The door opens. Cuddy looks stunning in a low-cut blue velvet blouse and a bright smile. "I'm so glad to see you," she says, frank relief in her voice as well as pleasure. But I flash back suddenly to that freezing night eight months ago and try not to flinch at the memory of snow caking my collar, her strong arms holding me up and just barely keeping me from breaking apart.

"Come on in," she says now, and takes the bottle from me, freeing my hand to shut the door.

"It smells wonderful," I tell her. "I'm very hungry. What did you get?"

"I'm cooking myself," she answers, a warning note in her voice that I fail to heed.

"You are?" It's not my fault I sound incredulous; Cuddy doesn't spend enough time in her kitchen to know a cast iron skillet from a Cuisinart.

"Yes, and I'm trying something new," Cuddy answers proudly.

"Cuddy, your cooking _is_ new."

"Don't be such a smartass. I'm in a good mood tonight, and I'm going to be _fun_. So come on, mix me a drink. I'll have a gin and tonic, and then _watch out!_"

"Coming up," I tell my boss, obediently manning the bar.

"It was sweet of you to come tonight."

"You know, sweet had nothing to do with it. I needed to see you."

"Oh, Greg, come off it. Whenever you do something sweet, you're too ashamed to admit it. And saying you needed to see me is _so_ sweet that you must have another, even more embarrassing motive."

"Yeah, you've got me all figured out." I hand her a drink. "Here's to knowing each other, not too wisely, but too well."

"Cheers," she says, clinking my glass. "Greg, what's going on? You look… different today somehow."

"I've made a resolution."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I've resolved to let go of the past, completely, entirely, and forever."

She peers at me suspiciously. "You don't look well. Remember that little heart attack you had last year?"

I demur, "It wasn't an MI, just cardiac arrest."

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, whatever. You don't look so hot."

"If you were a real doctor, I might take that more seriously," I goad her. "I'm _fine_. I've never felt better. I'm a little tired, haven't been sleeping. That's all."

"Oh, Greg, it's normal. You were friends with James for sixteen years. It's hard being alone." Her voice catches a little, and she clears her throat abruptly. "Now, let's have some dinner, okay? Because I worked _very_ hard."

* * *

Over dinner, which is some kind of unidentifiable all-organic vegan casserole that doesn't suck as much as I'd expected, I make Cuddy laugh with my story of the kid from my class, although I'm careful not to mention him by name or distinguishing physical features.

"Kids today have no manners," she shrugs. "The other day a first year waiting for his clinical mentor looked me up and down and asked me if I dyed my hair. Can you imagine?"

This is gonna be good. "What did you say?"

"I looked him straight in the eye and said, 'Well, let's just say that if I stood on my head, I would be a natural brunette with perfect breasts."

"You didn't!" This is why I love Cuddy. She's smart and funny as well as having a zesty bod, and every once in a while, the most professional suit can't keep her outrageous side covered up.

"I did! And the best part was that it went right over his head!"

I sit back, chuckling. "You know, you've got a mouth on you! Even back in Michigan. Remember that old lesbian who threw a drink over your head because you asked if she was hung like a donut?"

Cuddy starts giggling, and for a minute, it really is like old times, the years falling away between us. Then she turns dangerously solemn and reaches for my hand. "What's this?" she asks suddenly, touching my ring.

"Oh, it's… my mother's wedding ring," I tell her. "I found it in a drawer when I was cleaning."

If my voice hadn't gone all gravelly on us, she might have said, _Liar_. As it is, she only says, "Oh," and sits back with a sad smile of compassion.

The last thing I want right now is her pity. "Cuddy, you and I are both in need of another drink," I announce, lurching to my feet. I hope that the long limp to the bar will give both of us a chance to compose ourselves. But she follows me out and sways over to the CD player. Soon the melancholy strains of "Stormy Weather" swell to fill the room.

Cuddy comes up behind me; I can feel her small, warm hands sliding down my back and then around my upper arms. I turn – her face is close, too close for comfort – and then take hold of her and start to waltz. It's awkward, between the alcohol and my leg, but she breaks into a brilliant smile.

As our steps slow, she snuggles up to me, fitting her face neatly into the space between my shoulder and my chest. I hold her, suddenly grateful for her warmth, the sweet human scent of her as I press my cheek to her hair. Then I lean back a little, and we gaze at each other, her smoky blue eyes half-lidded with contentment. I allow myself to trail my fingers along the side of her face, tracing the high cheekbones, touching her lightly at the corner of her lips. For a second, everything seems to stand still. Then I come to my senses and back away.

"Wait!" she says quickly, and trips over to change the CD. I go back to mixing a fresh set of drinks. "I love this!" she enthuses as a familiar beat begins rocking the house.

"You're insane!" I say admiringly as she struts over to me, lip-syncing along with Foreigner.

"Come on, old man!" she taunts, doing something anatomically impossible with her hips and snapping her fingers.

I can't help reflecting her grin before I give in, downing my drink too quickly and joining her in the middle of the floor. All I got is the lame white guy shuffle, emphasis on the _lame_, but we're laughing together, and to my intense relief, the sexual tension appears to have been diffused. At least, it seems that way right up until we start playfully grappling with each other, I unbalance, and we find ourselves on the floor.

Neither of us is hurt; we wind up side by side, lying on our backs, smiling foolishly at the ceiling. Cuddy loops her hand around my elbow, and I clasp her fingers fondly. Then I struggle up, ordering her to stay put.

She thanks me as I slide a pillow from the sofa under her head, then notices that I also have a cigarette for each of us dangling from my mouth. I've learned a lot in the past eight months, such as that Cuddy only smokes when she's drunk. I light them both and pass her one. "Oh, very smooth cigarette move," she purrs.

"I've always wanted to do that," I leer.

"You don't even smoke," she points out.

"Not for the last sixteen years, except when I wanted to piss Wilson off," I admit. "He hated it."

"How unreasonable for an oncologist," she says dryly.

"Yeah, well, what's to stop me now? It's not as if it's going to kill me."

We're both quiet for a moment. It's comfortable. Too comfortable, apparently, because she says, "This is so nice, lying here with you… Don't you ever miss this? What we could have been to each other?" I laugh disbelievingly, but she continues undeterred. "Having a, a real relationship, and kids."

I blink, not sure that I heard her correctly. "I had – I had Wilson."

"No, I mean a _real_ relationship." She turns her head to look at me. "Greg, let's be honest, what you and James had together was… unique, and I'm sure wonderful in its way, but… wasn't it really just a substitute for something else?"

I break out in a cold sweat, and my heart is pounding in my ears, as she keeps on, relentless. "I mean, he'd been married three times-"

"Two, since I've known him," I correct her, wincing myself at how pathetic I sound.

"-plus he dated I don't know how many women along the way. I know that you two were… _close_… but don't you think that you deserved better than that?"

"_Shut up,"_ I say. I'm shaking. "You have no idea what you're talking about." I stagger to my feet, take a violent, unsteady step backward. "And there is no substitute for Wilson _anywhere_!"

She sits up; she's staring at me, speechless with pity. "Wilson and I were together for _sixteen years_, and if he hadn't died, we'd still be together! What the hell is not real about that?"

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know how much the two of you loved each other." She casts her eyes down. "I guess I'm just jealous that you and I never had that kind of love… Actually, I've never had that kind of love with anybody."

Just like that, my anger dies down to embers. "Cuddy, there is nothing wrong with your life. You just like feeling sorry for yourself; it's one of your greatest pleasures."

Now she gets up too, fire in her eyes. "And it's not one of _yours_? You're as pathetic as I am!"

"For your information, feeling sorry for myself is definitely not one of my great pleasures!"

"Yeah, right," she snorts. "Well, it's not one of mine either! But I'm forty-three years old, I've tried fertility meds, adoption, I've used every dating service under the sun, and where has it gotten me? I mean, what am I doing here, Greg, tell me, what?"

"You have plenty of friends, the job of your dreams," I say. "You'll be fine."

"Yeah, I have friends, but they don't need me, and I have you, and if you weren't such an _ass_, we would all be happy!" She retreats to the sofa, sits with the exaggerated dignity of the drunk. "Anyway, I only have you now because you lost James. And soon I'll lose you to someone else. It's not as easy for a woman." She blows smoke bitterly over her shoulder. "I've done _everything_ I was supposed to, and all I have to keep me company is a bottle of gin and a vibrator."

I sink down next to her on the couch and slide my arm around her shoulders. "Maybe you should try donuts with your gin," I suggest.

"Very funny," she sighs, but I can feel her relaxing against me.

"Cuddy, you're being melodramatic. Yeah, you almost had me there, a tiny tear was beginning to form at the corner of my eye." She has to laugh a little at that. "Now, quit it. You are still _breathtakingly_ beautiful, and if you don't like your life, change it. Take the job at Yale you told me about. Your sister would be thrilled to have you there."

"You have all the answers," she says sarcastically.

"No, I don't have any of them, actually," I admit.

"If you're so smart, why don't you do something new with your life? Take that research position at Stanford. You complain about the clinic and the classroom, but you could go anywhere you want!"

I look at her, feeling a bit betrayed. "I think that what I've done here has been worthwhile."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." She sighs. "As much as I dread it, I think I will go back to Connecticut."

"But why do you dread it?"

"When I lived there, I was young, I was fresh, I was so full of potential. Coming to Princeton after my residency was a dream, it was the icing on the cake. Going home is _defeat_. None of it really worked out the way I planned."

"Most things don't work out the way people plan," I point out. "You're just living in the past; you need to start thinking about your future."

"Oh, that is _rich,_ coming from you," she retorts. "Anyway, can't we feel sorry for ourselves for just a little longer? Let's have another drink."

"No, I don't think so."

"Come on-"

"No, I have to go-"

"_No_," she whines, holding on to my arm, "this was such _fun_-"

"You, young lady, are cut off." She pouts a little but helps rather than hinders my uneven progress towards the door.

"When will I see you again?"

"Aren't you going to New Haven?"

"No, I'd never do that, it'd be way too much work. Besides, I don't think James would want me to leave you here in Princeton all alone."

"Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. I've got all the answers, remember?"

"What are you doing this weekend?" she persists as I open the front door.

"I think I might just be very quiet," I smirk.

This sets her pouting again; that last drink was definitely a mistake. "You never really took me seriously, did you, Greg?"

"I tried to, Cuddy, remember? A long time ago. Didn't really work out." I bend down to give her a chaste peck on the cheek. "Good night, Cuddy."

But she twists her head and meets my mouth with a hungry moan, and for a moment, we press into each other, tasting of unshed tears and gin, until I gently disengage from her. "Sleep tight," I whisper, and this time it's just the briefest brush of lips in farewell.

I don't look back. I can't bear to see the doors closing on her forlorn face.


	5. Chapter 5

Back at my apartment, I am running out of reasons to stay the execution. The clock ticks, taunting me as the seconds slip away. I sit down at the desk and pick up the gun.

_

* * *

By the third day of the convention, the barkeeper at the hotel lounge greets me by name when I drop down for a beer and a pack of Lucky Strikes. I claim an empty seat in a corner and survey the crowded room, nursing my bottle and tapping my fingers along to the Billy Joel song playing on the jukebox._

_I pick out a familiar face almost instantly – a sharp-featured, soulful-eyed guy with dark brown hair, barely old enough to be out of med school, is slumped at the bar beside a half-empty Hurricane. I know, because I've noticed him carrying an express package around all day, that his name is James E. Wilson, and that he has been receiving urgent communications from a well-known mid-Atlantic law firm that specializes in divorces. Add in his expression, which is that of a puppy that's just been kicked viciously in the nuts, and it's a pretty safe bet that he's the victim of a hasty, and soon to be former, med school marriage._

_I also know, from hearing him raise questions at two of the talks I attended yesterday, that he is frighteningly knowledgeable despite his youth and a grand master of the_ insult oblique_, in addition to being by far the most attractive man in this room. _

_I'm not the only one who's aware of that last point; I can spot women with their sights on him from all angles. However, I have the distinct advantage of not having to wait for him to notice me. Grabbing my beer, I circle behind and slide onto the empty stool beside him. He grunts politely, and I nod and take a sip. _

_As we sit in self-conscious silence, "Leave a Tender Moment Alone" ends, then starts up again. Apparently someone in here is particularly fond of it. I don't mind; it's a great song. But I can see Wilson's jaw clench just before he takes a generous gulp of his drink._

"_Hot in here," he observes, loosening his tie. _

"_It is," I agree, sizing him up sidelong. He looks just as young up close, although with the sallow face and shadowed eyes of a man who's been substituting alcohol for sleep. Beads of sweat have begun congealing on his forehead._

"_This place is really crowded." He makes it sound like a personal affront._

"_Well, it is the closest hotel to the convention center." I pull out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Want one?"_

_His eyes flick to me, a bit unsteadily. "No thanks, I don't smoke." He thrusts out a hand abruptly, almost knocking over his glass. "I'm James Wilson. Oncology."_

"_Greg House, nephrology and infectious diseases." His hand is moist and clammy, but I feel a spark pass between our skins._

"_You been to New Orleans before?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_My first time," he says. He turns to scowl in the general direction of the jukebox. "Excuse me? Would you mind picking another song, please?" The guy sitting closest to it was one of the panelists this morning, an arrogant son of a bitch. He stares coolly back at Wilson and deliberately drops another quarter in and punches a key. I can't see it from here, but I'm betting that we get Billy Joel again, and a couple of minutes later, I'm proven right._

_Wilson pulls a hankie out and wipes his face, then stuffs it back into his pocket. "Excuse me a minute," he says, slurring just a little. He slides off the bar stool and sets off towards the offender, listing like a galleon at half tack. I make a grab for his sleeve, but too late._

_To be on the safe side, I guzzle most of my beer while watching Wilson argue with the jukebox Nazi. Eventually the inevitable happens: the guy deliberately turns his back, and Wilson completely loses his shit and screams, _"_I_ said, play another fucking song!"_ The next thing I know, a bottle of rum is flying through the air – fortunately not at anyone's head, but into the 10 foot antique mirror at the back of the bar, which shatters with a satisfying crash. _

_I promptly put down a five-dollar bill and make my escape as the two guys on my right cheer and begin pitching their shot glasses at Wilson's antagonist. I know that this can't end well, and I figure that a guy fresh out of med school wearing a five-year-old suit is not going to be able to post his own bail._

_When I get back to my hotel room, I make a call to my attorney, and by the time I arrive at the jail the following morning, I am able to tell Wilson, "I took care of it."_

_For some reason, Wilson always claimed, whenever we had occasion to relate this story to curious friends or acquaintances, that these were my very first words to him. I was never sure whether he honestly didn't remember our earlier conversation (and Wilson has always been a lightweight, so it is a distinct possibility that his memories of the events surrounding his arrest were rather blurry), or whether he simply preferred to believe that a complete stranger had the human decency to rescue him from his predicament._

_Then again, he also always failed to mention that after his release, I took him back to my hotel room and sucked him off with a brutal tenderness that surprised both of us. Why he didn't consider _that_ the foundation of our entire friendship, I don't know._

* * *

I come to my senses sitting at my desk, the gun pressed to my forehead. Feeling defeated by nostalgia, I lower it, turn it over in my hands for a few seconds, and finally set it down. I need a drink. It would only be appropriate to toast Wilson before I go, and if I need liquid courage to do this thing, so be it. But when I pull out my bottle of Maker's Mark, I find it nearly empty.

* * *

It's 11:20 when I reach my favorite bar and ask for a bottle of Scotch and a pack of Lucky Strikes to go. As I'm waiting, the door opens and Cody appears, slightly out of breath. He catches my eye, his mouth quirking in a tentative smile. "Cancel that," I tell the bartender, and signal for two drinks to be brought to me at table. I smile back at Cody, who licks his lips nervously and lopes over to sit down across from me in the booth I've chosen.

"Well, hello, Mr. Potter."

"Hello, sir," he says. The barkeeper sets two glasses down on the table, amber liquid glowing even in the dim light. "What are we drinking?"

"Scotch."

"Okay," he says, a little dubiously, and takes a sip. No spluttering or tears, fortunately.

"I come here all the time," I tell him. "I live just around the corner." Then I fix him with what I hope is a penetrating gaze. "But then, you knew that."

"On Baker Street," Cody confirms. There is neither embarrassment not defiance in evidence. I pull the yellow earbuds out of my pocket and lay them on the table.

"You're still carrying them around," he notes, looking pleased.

"Mmm. So what are you doing here?"

"Just out for a ride on my bike."

"That all?"

"I don't know," he says, sounding less certain of himself now.

"Were you looking for me?"

Cody looks down, then away, smiling. "Maybe. I don't know. I feel like my head is all stopped up with… stuff."

"What kind of stuff?" I'm walking a fine line between fascination and boredom, and whatever he says next may well tip me over.

"Like, the stuff that you were talking about today in class."

Boredom it is. "_That_ is definitely not important."

"No, it is important, your class is great. But… somehow, we always seem to end up talking about death. Is that all there is? I thought we were studying medicine to _save_ lives."

"Death is the future," I intone sententiously.

He grins, suddenly self-deprecating. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be depressing!"

"It's not depressing. It's not depressing, it's true. It may not be in your immediate future, but it's what we all share. Death _is_ the future."

"You're right. I guess."

"So if someone's not enjoying the present, there isn't a lot to suggest that the future should be any better." _Yeah, great rationalizing there, House, _whispers a voice in my head that sounds an awful lot like Wilson's.

"Yeah," Cody says dreamily, "I've thought that before… but, the thing is… you just never know." He meets my eyes. "Look at tonight." We gaze at each other, feeling something shift in the air, in the balance of power between us. "Actually, I feel really alone most of the time."

"You do?"

"Yeah. I've always felt this way. I mean, we're born alone, we die alone. And while we're here, we're absolutely, completely sealed in our own bodies." The throb in my thigh underscores his words, and I marvel at how familiar these sentiments are. This kid could be me twenty-five years ago, only leavened with an essential Wilsonesque quality that I can't quite pin down. Not sweetness, exactly - that word would do a real disservice to the complicated mixture of sanctimony and caring that my partner had displayed – but perhaps a genuine driving principle to do no harm.

"It's really weird," Cody continues, presumably unaware of these thoughts. "Kinda freaks me out to think about it. We can only experience the outside world through our own slanted perception of it." He jabs a finger at me suddenly. "Who knows what _you're _really like?"

_Wilson did,_ I think, and feel suddenly sad and very old. "I'm exactly what I appear to be. If you look _closely_. But that," I add, feeling my throat constrict, "takes a very special kind of person. We'd all be lucky to find one of those in a lifetime."

Cody grins shyly but triumphantly. "I had a hunch about you, sir!"

"You did?"

"Yep. I had a hunch you might be a real romantic."

"Blasphemy," I say, and we half-smile at each other. I take a sip of my Scotch.

"You know," Cody muses, "everyone keeps telling you that, when you're older, you'll have all this experience. Like it's some great thing."

I shake my head. "Mmm. It's a load of shit. It's amazing how much 'mature wisdom' resembles feeling too tired."

"So… all this experience is useless?"

"No, I wouldn't say that. In the words of Mr. Huxley, experience is not what happens to a man, it's what a man _does_ with what happens to him." _A test I have failed_, I think. _Am failing_. Fuck. _I'm a coward. Wilson was right._

Cody suddenly leans forward. "Let's go swimming," he says, his voice low, insistent.

"Okay," I respond promptly. Cody chuckles. "What?"

"It was a test. I thought you were bluffing, so I thought I'd suggest something completely outrageous, and if you resisted, if you even hesitated, I would know that you were full of shit."

I can't help being impressed at how quickly he's gone from "sir" to "shit" in less than two minutes and one shot of Scotch, and so, if for no other reason, I retort, "Well, I wasn't, were you?"

Cody downs the rest of his drink in one gulp and bangs it down on the table. _"Hell, no!"_


	6. Chapter 6

Cody may have had the brainstorm, but when it comes right down to it, he hasn't the faintest idea where we can go swimming at this time of night. Fortunately, I do.

* * *

We stand gazing up at the 12-foot wrought iron gates. "Where are we, sir?"

"Friend's house. More accurately, ex-wife of a friend's house."

"And you don't think she'll mind?"

"I don't think she's here," I reply reasonably, gesturing at the empty driveway.

"Then…" Cody looks troubled; it's obviously on the tip of his tongue to ask how we're going to get in, except that he doesn't want to call attention to the fact that a hop over the gate would be child's play for him, basically impossible for me. Suddenly I realize that the swimming suggestion makes a lot more sense in this context, too: something physical that we can do together and which won't put unnecessary strain on my leg. With, of course, the added bonus of potential nudity. _You manipulative bitch._

"Be not afraid," I tell him. "I've got the code." I swing the security panel open and punch in the date of the third Mrs. Wilson's anniversary, and just like that, we're in.

We're nearing the end of Indian summer, but the water will be warm enough. Cody reaches casually for my arm as we approach the stairs from the patio. "Here, sir, I'll help you down." His grip is firm but gentle. My thigh is throbbing, but there are no undignified collapses.

Once we reach pool level, though, Cody races ahead, calling, "Let's go!" He strips down to his skin without hesitation and dives into the deep end with a whoop. It's pretty dark down here with nothing but the security lights from the main house, but I still wait until he's in the water before shrugging out of my shirt and jeans.

I experience a quick flare of panic as the water closes over my head, and when something grabs my left ankle and yanks me down, I splutter and swear, struggling to surface. But of course it's only Cody, kicking away with a low laugh. I tread water and splash in his general direction, craning my head to follow the sound as he circles me, and then he hollers and locks an arm playfully around my neck, and we're suddenly wrestling, his arms slippery under my fingers, his legs tangling in mine. For a moment nothing hurts, and everything seems to make sense.

"_Sir?"_ I blink, dazed, my chest aching. For some reason we're standing in the shallow end, Cody's arm around my waist to support my weight. "That's enough for now, sir."

"I'm fine," I say automatically.

"Yeah, well, I'm cold," he claims, and drapes my arm over his shoulders, half-carrying me up the steps and over to our discarded clothing. I dress clumsily, in silence, but Cody simply bundles up his clothes and holds them in front of his crotch. "Can we go back to your place, sir?"

"Of course. Where else?"

"Where else," he echoes, smiling. "You know, sir, they shouldn't let you out on your own. You're liable to get into real trouble!"

"Oh, I excel at it."

He helps me stagger back up the stairs to the patio and hands me my cane, then peers at me more closely as the light falls across my face. "Your forehead's bleeding."

I raise my hand, and my fingers come away black with blood.

* * *

It's not a long drive back to the apartment, but we're both shivering, still soaking wet. Cody, stuffed back into his slacks and unbuttoned shirt, stops just inside the door, gazing around with a slightly incredulous grin. I point and say gruffly, "The bathroom's just down the hall if you want to take a shower."

"Aren't you taking a shower too, sir?" he asks. I honestly can't tell whether he's being coy.

"Age after beauty," I tell him.

"First I think we need to take care of that cut, sir. Do you have any Band-aids?"

Too tired after all to argue, I lead him to the bedroom and sink down on top of the sleeping bag, jerking my chin towards the adjoining room. "Going camping?" he asks.

"I'm fine, really," I mutter. The room is starting to spin very slowly.

"Stay there," Cody says, "I'll be right back." I lie back and close my eyes, willing the world to stabilize. I can hear him rummaging around in the bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet, sloshing the antiseptic.

Suddenly he's looming over me. "Sit up." I obey, but curl my lip a little to let him know what I think of his high-handedness. He kneels between my thighs, radiating warmth despite the condition of his clothes. "Tilt your head back."

"Wow, it's almost like you're a real doctor," I taunt him feebly as he dabs at the caked blood on my bruised forehead. He just smiles, spreads the Band-aid with steady fingers, and then brushes my thinning hair back tenderly. Our faces are alarmingly close together.

"I think that we should get you out of those wet clothes," I tell him.

Cody continues to stare down at me for a few seconds, but then murmurs, "Yes, sir." He stands, turning his back, and strips, not exactly seductively, but slowly and deliberately, while I watch. Here in the soft light, he is golden and gorgeous, shoulders and chest well-defined without being bulky, waist narrow, endearing sacral dimples above his buttocks.

He slides out of his underwear last, then swivels again to face me, his eyes locked on mine. He's half-erect, his penis swaying up with a kind of eager uncertainty. He seems to be waiting for me to say something, to reach for him, but I'm literally weak in the knees and can only swallow, blinking, bewildered by a heady mix of alien emotions. Besides, I figure that the only way this isn't a career-detonating sexual harassment suit from a student is if he makes the first move. _Bullshit,_ Wilson's voice sneers. _It's your word against his, either way._

Our bizarre Mexican standoff lasts for several seconds before Cody caves, retreating into the bathroom. Once I hear him safely in the shower, I peel off my damp clothes and shrug into my robe. I limp into the living room to turn up the thermostat, and when he joins me, a towel hugging his hips, I'm sitting on the sofa.

"Aren't you cold?"

"No, I'm great," he assures me.

"Would you like a drink?"

"A beer, if you have one."

"Well, I'm afraid… that's all we have," I say, my mouth quirking in an involuntary smile. "Two beers coming up."

When I get back from the kitchen, he's prowling around the living room, inspecting the bookshelves, my record collection. He accepts the bottle I hand him and takes a polite sip. "You live here by yourself, sir?"

"I do now. I used to share this place with a friend." I am surprised at the ease with which these words emerge from my mouth.

"Man! Guys my age dream about the kind of set-up you've got here. I mean, what more could you want? You get to be left alone, and you come and go as you please."

I have to smile, remembering all too well when that was my own vision of bliss, particularly in those first few days after Wilson arrived on my doorstep with a blow-dryer and the world's loudest nail clippers in his luggage. "Is that your idea of a perfect life?"

"What's the matter, don't you believe me?"

"If you're so keen on the idea of living by yourself, then where does Lois fit in?" I ask pointedly.

"Lois?" he shrugs. "What's she got to do with anything?"

"I was under the impression that you two were fucking," I say, because apparently, even when I'm hoping to get into someone's pants, I can't let go of my lifelong habit of poking with a sharp stick and watching for the reaction.

"Uh… we did, once."

"Why only once?"

He smiles. "I didn't say 'only once,' I said, 'once.' Come on, the last thing I want to talk about is Lois." He swallows a yawn, skillfully enough that I might have missed it except for the telltale moisture in his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Hm. My watch seems to have stopped."

"Do you… want me to go?"

_Wouldn't we both like to know._ But what I say is, "You must be kidding! Go get us another beer."

"Is that an order, sir?" he says softly.

"Damn right it is." He pads away, and I knead half-consciously at my thigh and swill down more of my beer. _I think that I want this, but I'm not ready, I'm not-_ "Pathetic," I groan, letting my head drop into my hands.

"Did you say something, sir?" Cody asks, setting down a fresh bottle in front of me.

I look up, peer into his watchful face. I decide that I have to know exactly what I'm dealing with. "Why are you here?" Silence. "Why did you go to the clinic and ask the duty nurse for my address?"

"I… just wanted to see you someplace other than school."

"Why?" I give him one of my patented looks, the one that's made half of my senior fellows wet their pants and the other half… _wet_ their pants.

"Sometimes I think I'm crazy because I see things so differently from everyone else. I feel like I can talk to you." I try not to snort as I take another gulp of beer. _God, how Wilson would laugh if he could hear this. _"To be honest, sir, I was also worried about you today."

I drink again, suddenly feeling reckless, a little giddy. "Me? What's there to worry about? I'm fine." Cody's face begins to blur in front of me. "I'm… fine," I murmur as my too-heavy head falls back into the sofa cushions.

* * *

I feel as though I'm sinking. Drowning. I can't breathe. I barely manage to break the surface of the water.

* * *

I gasp awake to find myself lying in my bed on top of the covers. It's almost 3 am, and the apartment is still.

I struggle up and stagger into the living room, where someone is asleep on the couch under my sleeping bag. The head rests on what I still think of as Wilson's pillow, and for a second my heart gives a sickening lurch of hope before my brain shoots it down deliberately. This hair is fine, straight, and the color of burnished copper in the dim light, and the face is no older than Wilson's was on the evening that we met.

Cody sleeps as hard as Wilson, though; he doesn't stir as I pull back the loose corner of the cover, planning only to tuck him in, but stopping short when my fingers encounter cool metal. My gun is tucked into the crook of Cody's arm, a heartbreaking protective gesture made all the more touching for its inadequacy. But it's enough for now. I slide the gun out and lock it into its drawer, then return to my room and shut the door.

A few times in my life, I've had moments of absolute clarity, when for a few brief seconds, the silence drowns out the noise, and I can _feel _rather than think. And things seem so sharp, and the world seems so fresh, it's as though it had all just come into existence. I take the letters I've left out for Cuddy and my attorney and light a match, watching them disintegrate above the flame. Holding on to Wilson is death. I want to live. I want to be happy.

I can never cling to these moments; they fade. And yet, I live my life on these moments. They pull me back to the present. And I am convinced, if only for a few seconds, that everything is exactly the way it is meant to be.

At peace, or at least in a temporary state of truce, with myself and my memories, I sit down on the bed. I reach for a glass of water, then pause, wincing, as pain shoots through my left arm. My heart suddenly feels too big for my chest, and I grope futilely to rub the ache away, attempting to get to my feet before my ruined thigh gives way and drops me on the floor, the glass shattering beside me.

I have no air to yell. I can hear the clock ticking more and more loudly, measuring out my last remaining breaths. And then it stops.

Out of the darkness a figure approaches, swimming into focus. It's Wilson, smiling, in crisp slacks and glossy French shoes. He kneels beside me, bends down, and kisses me at the corner of my mouth. And then, having bestowed this benediction, he rises smoothly to his feet again and backs away. The world fades to black.

_After many a summer dies the swan._


End file.
